Hereward (23 page)

‘If memory serves me, you did a good enough job yourself of welcoming death into your life.’ Standing, Hereward shielded his eyes to watch three men on horseback riding across the pebbles towards them. His hand slipped to Brainbiter, still in its scabbard despite the sea plunge.

Alric pressed his fingers against his companion’s wrist. ‘We have been reborn into a new life. This is your opportunity to leave behind the man you were and become the man you would be.’

‘We are who we are,’ Hereward said, but he let his hand fall to his side none the less.

Reining in their horses, the three men eyed the shipwreck survivors, trying to discern who was the spokesman for the group. In an insistent, querying tone, they made their demands in the rolling Flemish tongue, which reminded Hereward of the waves breaking upon the beach. The seaman who had first spoken to the warrior translated the men’s orders, in accordance with which the survivors lumbered wearily to their feet and traipsed behind the horsemen into the cold morning.

They trudged along rutted tracks, thankful to be free of the snow that gripped England. After an hour, church spires appeared on the silver-grey horizon and soon the ramparts of the town of Guines loomed up. They passed an abbey, the quiet broken only by the rhythmic rattle of a waterwheel, and skirted a leper-house, the morning’s bread left outside the door still uncollected. Within the walls, three church towers rose above the thatched and timber roofs, but Hereward found Guines sleepy after the bustle of Eoferwic. Dogs yapped in the street, and men emerged from their workshops to eye the cause of the disturbance, returning to their tasks a moment later with a sniff and a shrug.

Though Alric had promised a new dawn, the warrior found he could not forget England or his hatred of Harold Godwinson. Without vengeance, how could he ever free himself from his shame, his grief and his loneliness?

The riders dismounted and led the seamen into the hall of the local ruler, where they warmed themselves by the hearth, waiting to be seen. Not long after, a snowy-haired man, bent by his years, shuffled in with his retinue. His face was hollow-cheeked and crumpled by wrinkles. With a groan, he lowered himself into a carved oaken seat on a low dais at the far end of the hall while his attendants gathered on either side. His barely audible words creaked like leather, but the seaman translated for his companions.

‘He is Count Manasses, who rules this county and has rights over all shipwrecks on this coast. He would know our names and our purpose here.’

One by one the seamen stepped forward to announce their identity, but when Hereward advanced the count leaned forward and eyed the warrior curiously. The older man noted the blue-black markings of the warrior inscribed on Hereward’s arms, and the gold rings, and his stature and his sword.

‘My name is Hereward Asketilson. I am exiled from my homeland, a fighter, trained in spear, sword and axe, a huntsman, a rider. I seek to earn my way in Flanders.’ His voice echoed clearly across the hall.

Manasses studied Hereward for a moment, and then spoke. ‘The English have been coming to Flanders since the days of his youth,’ the sailor translated. ‘High-born men and women as well as merchants. But there is always a need for warriors with strong right arms. The counts of this country fight over any slight, real or imagined, and all dispute their territorial boundaries. You will earn your way here as a sword for hire, he says, but only if you are good enough. If you are not, you will be dead within the week.’ Manasses’ laugh rustled across the hall.

‘There is no man in this country I fear,’ Hereward replied.

The count gave a slow nod and beckoned with one finger to a figure standing at the back of his attendants. A man strode forward who appeared as big as the bear Hereward had killed in Eoferwic. The Mercian took in the wild red hair and the untamed beard that fell almost to the man’s navel, both streaked with grey, and the heavily scarred arms that looked as if they had been carved from oak. A leather patch covered the giant’s left eye. Despite his fearsome appearance, however, his mouth was split in a warm grin and his chest shook with silent laughter.

‘Little man,’ he boomed, ‘my name is Vadir. I am a man of Mercia and I welcome a brother from my home to these unfamiliar fields. Count Manasses would see your claim put to trial. Let us test your bravery and strength before all in this hall, and if your reputation survives there will be no shortage of gold to hire your sword.’

‘You may be tall and broad, but even oaks will fall with enough cuts of the axe.’ Hereward knew he was weakened by the shipwreck and the long march, but he put on a cold face and started to draw his sword.

‘No weapons, little man. There is no need to spill blood here, for we are all friends. It is play, no more, for the benefit of our hosts.’ The bear-like man clapped a hand on the warrior’s shoulder.

‘Play, you say? Though the loser will be humbled before the eyes of all here? This is serious business.’

Vadir laughed. ‘You are a true warrior. Come, let us see if we can complete this trial without too much harm to you.’

When the red-haired man led Hereward towards the hearth an excited whisper rustled through the attendants, but two young men jeered and pointed, laughing together.

The warrior glanced at them, then directed a questioning look at Vadir.

‘They say the English are weak,’ the big man translated. ‘Weaker than the Vikings. Weaker than the Normans.’

Hereward simmered. ‘Then they have not seen a true Englishman in battle.’

‘Let us teach them, as we would children.’ Vadir stripped off his tunic and motioned for his opponent to do the same. Naked to the waist, his torso was a patchwork of pink scars.

‘You are old,’ Hereward said. ‘I will restrain myself.’

The other man boomed with laughter. ‘Ah yes, poor me. My body fails me.’

One of the attendants tossed him a length of greased rope. Vadir tied one end tightly round his right wrist and offered the other end to Hereward, who did the same. When the two warriors faced each other across the hearth, the big man waved their bond in the flames with a shake of his arm. ‘A simple game. Your aim is to survive until the rope burns through. Should your strength falter, you will be dragged through the embers and face a burning.’

Two attendants stoked the fire until the flames roared up higher than a man.

Hereward tested the rope. ‘One of us will be roasted like a hog, but it will not be me,’ he said with a nod to signal he was ready.

Vadir’s broad grin gleamed through the twirling grey smoke.

Both men took the strain on the rope. For a moment they sized each other up, and when the circle of attendants began to shout encouragement to their favoured competitor, the contest started. Vadir yanked on the rope, almost propelling Hereward into the flames. The warrior braced himself, reassessing his opponent’s strength. In a fair fight, he could see he would be no match for his fellow Mercian. He had to make it a contest more of guile and skill than of muscle.

Playing to the crowd, Vadir roared with laughter. He flexed his right arm again and drew Hereward towards the fire. Beads of sweat trickled down the warrior’s brow. The jeers of the crowd rang in his buzzing ears; they sensed a quick defeat. His leather shoes slid on the boards, and his arm shook from the strain of resisting.

Vadir laughed louder, punching the air with his free hand.

Then, with one sharp yank from his opponent, Hereward’s exhausted legs gave way. His face plunged towards the embers, and he flashed back to Thangbrand sizzling in the hearth in Eoferwic. God was surely punishing him for his sins. Ramming his hands against the rocks circling the fire, he stopped his momentum, but the heat seared his skin.

Vadir chuckled, allowing his younger opponent to scramble back to his feet. This time Hereward changed tactics. He leapt to his right and wrenched on the rope. Vadir stumbled towards the fire, off balance. Shock flashed across his face. Reasserting himself, he narrowed his eyes and nodded, but his grin remained.

For long moments, the two men feinted and fought, Hereward dancing with a light foot that the heavier man would never be able to match. Vadir, in turn, planted his feet firmly and strained his back and arms to haul the warrior over the embers whenever he appeared wrong-footed.

The greased rope sizzled and blackened.

Unimpressed by both combatants, the two young attendants jeered more loudly. Though he couldn’t understand their words, Hereward felt stung by the obvious mockery. He saw Vadir had the same feelings. His grin fading for the first time, the big man flicked his eyes towards the two Flemings, who laughed again at their private joke and slapped each other’s backs.

When Hereward felt the strain on the rope loosen, he realized Vadir had reached the limit of his tolerance. Glowering at the two men, the giant cursed in Flemish and then raised his eyebrows at the warrior. Hereward responded to the silent communication with a nod.

Vadir roared. Leaning back, he bunched his arm muscles and hauled with all his strength. Hereward leapt through the fire. At the last moment, he swung his legs round and thundered into the two attendants. The Flemings spun away across the hall, their wits smashed out of them.

Laughing, Vadir grasped Hereward’s hand and hauled him up from the floor. Though the contest had not ended as planned, from his chair Manasses clapped and croaked his approval.

‘It seems we achieve more fighting side by side,’ Vadir laughed, laying a heavy hand on Hereward’s shoulder. ‘You need gold. I need gold. And I know just the way to get it.’

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY
-S
EVEN

27 September 1064

BEYOND THE RAMPARTS, the stark church towers of Bruges pierced the blue sky. A steady stream of the curious made their way out from behind the walls. It was the biggest fair of the year, Vadir had told Hereward, and their last chance to find employment during the wolf-season. On a trestle, a man from one of the drinking houses sold cups of ale to men who lay back drunk in the sun. Two boys turned a sizzling hog on a spit over a fire. Poets recited their latest compositions to small groups waiting for the real entertainment to begin, wandering harpists sang of past glories and jugglers spun balls of wood high into the air. To one side, a churchman in his white tunic preached against the ungodly ways of the tournament, but few listened. There would be time enough for that in church the following morning.

Sweat slicked Hereward’s brow and trickled down his back beneath the chain mail as he surveyed the growing crowd. Summer still lingered, although the apples had ripened in the orchards and the berries had all been picked. It had been a good year and a half in Flanders. The voices in his head had faded, and the rage that had simmered in his heart often seemed a distant memory. He had Vadir and Alric to thank for that. As they travelled the flat, green countryside selling their services to anyone who would have them, his two companions had attempted to teach him the honourable code of the knight. With his unquenchable good humour, Vadir had begun by instructing him in the etiquette of combat. Most of it had made little sense to Hereward, and the red-haired Mercian had often been forced to lay his charge on his back with a punch or a turn of his spear. But gradually Hereward had listened and learned, as he would have done at the feet of his father, if Asketil had ever paid any attention to him during his early years. Over time, the terrifying force that lurked inside him was shackled and imprisoned so deeply that Hereward hoped it would never possess him again. And after the day’s tuition was over, Alric had eagerly offered his own instruction, in the biblical lessons and the teachings of St Augustine and the ways of living a life in service to God. Most days the words washed over him, but Hereward was surprised to find their friendship deepening.

Under Vadir’s guidance, he had kept his fiercest instincts in check during their employ by various counts involved in minor territorial disputes. No wild slaughter, no murder, all kills made honourably in the manner of a knight. And so his reputation had grown, to the point where at their last stay in Picquigny he had been employed to train the younger fighters. Once again, he had felt some of the respect that had touched him in Eoferwic, a puzzling sensation. He still felt haunted by the shadows gathering in England. He still found himself concerned for Alric, who battled his own demons. But for the first time in his short life he thought there might be a chance for inner peace.

As he waited for the battle-fair to begin, a knight strode up with his retainers close behind him. Hereward could tell from the noble’s red and blue banner that he was a Fleming, slender, with piercing eyes and an aquiline nose, a head shorter than Hereward but five years or more older. The warrior sensed trouble. Competition in the battle-fair was fierce, with women, work and gold all at stake. Vadir had warned him that some of his rivals would attempt to unsettle him.

The knight jabbed his sword directly at Hereward’s heart. ‘You are just a common fighting man,’ he sneered. ‘Not a knight at all. You do not deserve my respect.’

‘I do not need to be a knight to kick your arse across this field of combat,’ Hereward replied, rattling his sword in its scabbard. ‘Here, this makes us equal.’

The Fleming laughed in a studiedly contemptuous manner. With a swing of his arm, he clattered his blade against the side of Hereward’s head.